


Acheron

by billspilledquill



Category: Historical RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-06-30 11:04:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19851835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billspilledquill/pseuds/billspilledquill
Summary: Schiller's memories.





	Acheron

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Acheron](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17925461) by [puffy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/puffy/pseuds/puffy). 



> Acheron is one of the five rivers that leads to the Greek underworld, as depicted in the ancient Greek mythology. The ferryman is responsible for bringing the newly dead to the underworld. Acheron's literal meaning is "the river of woe".

_What is death?_

Everything that was once felt, whatever sad or thrilling, everything, like a torrent, was brought back, heart in a wild, whirling, shaken state, vibrating; all sensory-- all _reason_ decline at that moment, then turning once more. The melting scenery--

Drowning--

Then everything else melts into the dark pit pools of the night. 

In the depth of one's self, throwing your arms over, embracing the next world. [1]

_What does death feel like?_

Heavy with tragedy. Lonely murmurs. Whispers. Down, down, down. 

Irritated by the pain, and the pain's pain. A silent cry. [2]

Acheron's drink is sweet and lovely. [3]

No, death does not give him the time to think of that; death is distortions and heartstrings. 

He rests on a chair- big, tall- not sure if he is trying hard to stay still or he simply can't move. Judging from his odd and yet stubborn altitude, the night would gift him another bloody fight between his good, healthy mind to his enslaved, tortured body. Only when the line blurs between the subconscious that he would be unable to control his breathing, the ups and the downs, the rhythm weak. He would ask to the Moon God about his heartbeats. He has always had scarce moment of the outside nature and its fresh air, now he can't even remember the easy feeling when walking around your room with ease. 

_Walking around--_

"Friedrich," Wolfgang is sitting on that chair, and with a lazy, serene position, calling his name. Herr Goethe always comes back to his world at four in the afternoon. 

Yet his mind is anxious. The daily- _weekly_ pain and overdose of coffee triggering his mind to the point of not analyzing the from of Herr Goethe and his long awaiting death poem about the Acheron. The spontaneous conversation gets interrupted, miracles and dreams are blurring in eyesight. He restlessly strolls in the room, frictions between the maps of wood and the tired old paint. 

"Do you need to lie down, Friedrich?" Wolfgang asks, concerned. 

He waves his hands. 

"Then at least sit down for a while, Friedrich," Wolfgang's voice stops being insistent, instead picks up a collection of poetry and turns a few pages. 

He walks up to the end of the salon, the tip of his toes almost touching the wall, just like a military school student, striking a clear and clean pose and turns-- the scar he last wants to have on his body-- now he walks toward the armchair, seeing Goethe's upper face covered by shadows. He is walking nearer, Goethe slides back the book to where it first was- his brows giving him an admirable, colorful light, the one where darkness would never take over. 

"From this mountain we used to hear the Love God Korybantes calling for his beautiful friend." Wolfgang says with an unnatural smile. 

" _Yearning is needless._ " [4] He replies. But the other has taken hold of his hand when he tries to get over the chair- and when he finally dis-tangles himself from thoughts other than his unconditional pain he realizes that he is- _yes, really_ \- on Goethe's lap, still and very much comfortably. 

His face is burning a bright red, and what's strange about it is that the breathlessness that plagued him more than reason did has been healed at that very moment. 

Wolfgang carefully holds his wrist, his eyes a running wild clean and clear rivulet. His fingers spam, curling around the other's coat, feeling Goethe's chest falls and rises. There will not be another now, not anyone but him that understands, that beneath Goethe's bleak and ruling nature, he is guided by instinct and its submerging feelings. This abstract side in the genius' creation is present in the great poet daily. And Goethe's heart, that "majestic, rue-less, wild and incomparable" [5] spirit, when facing that bright jarring fire, Schiller doesn't feel small or diminished from his own. He has noticed, the worship he brings unto him, as the same desire and pursuing to the gods. In this man ten years his senior, there is the warm, soft, consenting and sleek sensuality that he does not feel the nee to escape. And Goethe understands it all. 

Wolfgang's arms drape around his waist, when he holds unto his shoulder. That serious forehead touches his, and he sees the slight old face of Goethe smiling an innocent, Greek smile. He closes his eyes, Goethe's fingers caressing his hair. The calm seems to hide waves. He has never seen the sea before, and yet could feel the fresh breeze of the Tyrrhenian Sea in the softness of the touch. It has better effectiveness than a tranquilizer, and perhaps more desirable than Hypnos' love. 

"Are you feeling better?"

"I can't enjoy myself more of your hospitality."

He tries to lift an arm, just like how an old beast stay trapped in a heavy layer of feathers, looking at the messy piles of words and letters on his table. It is the right distance to have between the outside world and him. In between these teasing, enjoyable, intense words and sentences, there is _one_ that is most dear and true--

"I can't resist meeting you, and when I do, I feel like like I am nothing to you."

He thinks of a young man, good-mannered, slight figure, his blond hair attracting glances, and like Apollo, strolls down the hall. Goethe said that Hölderlin was a projection of his own heart. He looked the man who shared his first name, mostly he does so inside his mental labyrinth. He has permitted the learning and copying concerning the technical skills, since teaching a penniless poet requires running away from the vast maze of philosophy. But he knew very well that the golden state cannot be rebuild, and a fascination to gods is only a small pointless notion to life. Hölderlin, with his long infatuation with Greece like one would feel for one's homeland-- these logical and stern games he plays- do not comply to his sensitive and weak mind. Needless to say about the princeliness of innocence and peace. 

He can differentiate himself from reality and dream just like he had conquered disease with his mental work; Wolfgang also knows the clear line between creation and talent. Retro-movement needs only the brain, all else focuses on the colorful games. 

Hölderlin is different, he has an almost despairing amount of innocence and stubbornness, if we want to put these into practice of every day life, it would be considered the beginning of madness and crisis waiting to happen. So he takes care of him as a friend would, and Wolfgang would sometimes say warmly to _resist_ , to _control yourself_. And yet Hölderlin burns the same fire that Hyperion had, the same youthfulness and passion, until he can't hear no more from his idol. 

_Youth._

Youth is separation and incomprehension. 

Youth is what Wolfgang said the passion he wanted from him. 

Youth is his time left and past, all less than Wolfgang's. 

Just that youth, to a person that has little days left, means so very little. 

He doesn't know if the water from Acheron is sweet or lovely because of his pain. He rests on the same big armchair, the only difference between him and the newly dead of Acheron is the weak breath he still holds. The only barrier between him and the boat is time. 

_Master of nature was enamored with your chains,_

_Your power grows after many battle gains,_

_From the wilderness of your discipline, the roses bloom wild._

He doesn't remember for how much time he has written poems, and even more when he has stopped worrying about writing a truly perfect tragedy like _King Oedipus_. Doesn't care anymore of immortal spirit and forever beauty, only the temporary peace and life's trial. Every time he recalls the verse, the blooming rose appears before him, like in the chaos and battles from their time period, his and Wolfgang's unchanging devotion and love. 

He holds the quill with all his force, the tip of it trembling and painting the paper with dark ink spots, like Mount Olympus' casting shadows from above. His vision gradually fails, the direction of his head unobservant, ending thus with a messy scribbling. The writing is indecipherable and meaningless to the lots, but he holds his breath, tries despite himself to control the force of the quill, and leaves on paper with a sort of underlining worship-- the verses of war and of love and of dreams. 

_To the modern conqueror that stands on the pedestal of nineteen century._ He so writes on the final draft. 

_To Herr Goethe who long lives in the nineteen century._

**Author's Note:**

> [1]: From Goethe's unfinished play _Promethus_  
>  [2]: From Schiller's poem _Elysium_  
>  [3]: From Schiller's _Semele_ , a play in two act.  
> [4]: From Schiller's _The Gods of Greece_ , Korybantes is Aphrodite. "Beautiful friend" refers to her lover- Adonis, killed by a wild boar. Aside the tragic undertones, Goethe had also very cleverly complimented/teased Schiller, which is very nice of him. (Wink wink nudge nudge)  
> [5]: Shakespeare's _Antony and Cleopatra_ Act two, Scene three, wherein a fortune teller describes Antony's future. He later suggested Antony to leave Caesar, because he claimed he would dim under his light. This could well apply to the early stage of Schiller-Goethe relationship.
> 
> In 1783 Schiller wrote: "... [when visiting Weimar] when you would compare me with Wallander, Goethe and their similar, you would realize the insurmountable gap between me and them. When you come back, you would come back full of their dreams and aspirations, so full of their geniuses that it would make you head turn; and my own light, slight and frail, that you will stop noticing."
> 
>  **Translator's note:**  
>  A lot has been omitted (intentionally or not, for the sake of the translation) and words are changed. There are many instances where I felt sorry for the word that I had to alter, but they made more sense in English/the format of the text. SO many quotes (from letters, titles, plays) that I have to paraphrase. Since the original titles from their works (and in some cases, correspondences) are German, and the work itself being written in Mandarin, it will have some variations between my translation and the titles, names, etc. The italics and dashes are mine, as well as the mistakes. Thanks for the author for being patient with me, I am glad to finally do this at last!


End file.
